


La Fin des Haricots

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 00:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21466948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Tea cakes, tins, flirting and scurvy.
Relationships: Lt Henry T.D. Le Vesconte/Thomas Jopson, implied one-sided Lt Edward Little/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019), The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	La Fin des Haricots

**Author's Note:**

> A late addition for Rarepair Week's "Sadderday", and for my Bingo square "the hold."

“Would you like another tea cake, sir?” 

The answer, of course, is yes. Henry looks up at the man beside him, hovering politely with a tray in hand. “Thank you, Mr. Jopson.” 

“You're quite welcome, sir." He smiles as Henry helps himself to the last cake on the tray. It's a ritual they have, a dance they've perfected over their long months in the ice and Henry's many visits to _Terror_ for tea, dinner, luncheon, and on one occasion, breakfast. Jopson offers. Henry accepts. Always.

Henry glances down the table. The other men are deep in their varied conversations. As usual, James' voice rises above all, regaling Crozier and the ever-dour Little with a story about getting soaked to the skin whilst attempting to navigate the Yellow River delta. Crozier, for once, is neither rolling his eyes nor on the apparent verge of throttling James. Instead, he appears to be listening, even amused. Inspired by this rare sight, Henry takes it upon himself to also step outside the well-trodden path. 

“You must think me terribly greedy, always asking for more.” It's the lengthiest sentence he's ever spoken to Jopson. 

Jopson's smile grows, becoming something less stewardly and more interesting. “Not at all, sir. I appreciate a man with a healthy appetite.” He doesn't wink. Henry wouldn't expect it of him, a man who has been nothing but conscientious every time Henry has seen him. There is, however, a surprising flash of cheekiness to Jopson's expression that makes Henry stifle a laugh in his tea cake. As Jopson moves away, Henry permits himself, for just a moment, to savour the sight of the other man's trim waist and neat, rounded backside as much as he savours the cake itself.

***

Henry loves James dearly. He's as close a friend as Henry has ever had, and Henry wouldn't trade that friendship for all the tea in James' beloved China. There are, however, certain downsides to being such good friends with the charismatic “Handsomest Man in the Navy”, a man who draws all the attention in a room simply by stepping into it. First and foremost being there is often very little attention left over for Henry. 

Jopson pays Henry a good deal of attention. Attentiveness is his job, of course, and Henry takes pains not to misinterpret being good at one's duties for being bad at following the Articles. Still, he does not think he flatters himself overmuch to believe, when Henry is aboard _Terror_, Jopson attends him more closely than he does any other officer, save his own captain. Mr. Bridgens, by contrast, while an efficient steward, never asks if Henry has had enough to eat, never offers leftovers, never ensures, quietly and discreetly but in a way that does not go unnoticed, that Henry always has a little extra gravy on his plate at dinner, an extra biscuit on his plate at tea. Never pays Henry any particular attention at all.

Henry is rather interested to see where Jopson's attention might lead. Alas, immediately after their little exchange over the tea cake, the cold and the monster confine both crews to their respective ships for several weeks. Henry doesn't go over to _Terror_ again until he volunteers to bring back provisions to supply the large number of their men who have recently moved to _Erebus_. 

Jopson is already in the hold, ledger and pencil in hand, when Henry is accompanied down the ladder by Lieutenant Irving. Irving is no great friend of Henry's. Henry has precious little time for men who make a show out of their faith. He gets enough of that on the rare occasions he sees his father's people.

“I rather think we can manage, Irving,” Henry says. “I'll send for a few men to lend a hand when we're ready to move the stores.” 

A strange look crosses Irving's face, but all he says is, “All right. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.” 

Irving glances at them again, but he leaves. That's all Henry asks of him. He can think whatever his little God-bothering brain desires. 

“I thought we might divvy up the tins first,” Jopson says, his voice brisk and efficient. “If that suits, sir.” 

“I am in your hands.” Henry hopes for a smile, but Jopson, apparently, is all business. 

“Mr. Diggle and I were thinking to send eight dozen of the veal to _Erebus_, and another ten dozen of the beef.” His gaze slides to Henry, but only momentarily. “I know that one's your favourite, sir.” 

“Let us speak plainly, Mr. Jopson. It is all dog. But I do find the 'beef' has a better flavour. I venture it must be kidnapped lapdog rather than dying gutter mongrel.” 

This earns a laugh. “You have a sophisticated palate, indeed.” 

“I am a gourmand of the highest order.” 

For a moment, the only sound is the scratching of Thomas' pencil on his ledger. Then, he looks up. In the glowing light of the lantern, his cheeks are as rosy as a girl's, and something shifts in Henry. “I feel you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Jopson.” Henry smiles the way he would were he on land, dancing with a pretty young lady at an Admiralty ball. “You know so much about me, yet I know nearly nothing of you.” 

“There's not much to know, sir.” 

“That can't be true.” Henry is certain of it. Jopson fascinates. He's as mannerly as a gentleman—more so than many gentlemen Henry has known—but he is clearly low-born. His loyalty to Crozier is fierce and tenacious, although, as far as Henry can see, the captain has done nothing to warrant it. And his beauty far surpasses that of any other man on the expedition. Even that, Henry would faithlessly admit, of dear James himself. 

Jopson hesitates, then turns to face Henry, placing the ledger and pencil on a shelf. “My favourite meal,” he says, “is eel pie and sponge with raspberry jam.”

Delighted, Henry laughs. “Then I shall ensure you have it. As soon as we're home, we'll go to my club and demand it of the chef.” 

“I'm not certain I would be welcome at your club.” But there's a grin on his lips as he says it. 

“Don't worry about that. Half of them can't even stand me.” Particularly the older men who fought Napoleon and have a visceral aversion to Henry's surname. “But we shall say to hell with them and eat our eel pie and sponge with raspberry jam. And then...”

“And then?” Jopson's eyes twinkle. He has stunning eyes, Henry realizes, the colour like the sea on a calm day. He can't think why he never noticed it before. 

On a whim, Henry catches Jopson's hand in his. He hasn't quite decided what he's going to do with it. Jopson squeezes, and inspiration strikes.

Henry loves romance. The fluttery excitement of an initial meeting. The thrill of the chase. The wonder of making love to a new body, of learning all its secrets, its quirks and preferences, of seeing a person—woman or man, Henry isn't choosy in that regard—come apart for the first time. As an experience, it is unmatched. 

There's no time for that here, alas. There is time, barely, for Henry to look meaningfully at Jopson and say, “And then, my dear, I will place myself once again entirely at your mercy.” He raises Jopson's hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it, parting his lips just a little. The skin is surprisingly smooth, given the amount of washing up and laundering and sheer hard work Jopson does. Without removing himself, Henry glances up and meets Jopson's gaze. He is prepared to play it off as a joke if Jopson seems amused or repulsed, but he appears neither of those things. Instead, Jopson looks back at Henry with the same saucy expression he had that day at tea.

“Are you sure you wish to do that, Lieutenant?” 

Henry feels breathless. "My dear Mr. Jopson, I have never been more sure of anything in my life.” 

How Jopson might have responded to that is a question forever lost. There's a clattering on the ladder, and Henry releases him, taking a step back as Jopson grabs the ledger and fixes his eyes on the shelf of tins. 

“Irving told me you were here, Le Vesconte.” Lieutenant Little says, accusingly, as he joins them in the hold. There's a suspicious scowl on his face, a change from his usual mulish despondency. The novelty is quite refreshing. Henry knows from whence it comes. Some officers react to another officer boarding their ship the way most men would react to another man boarding their wife. Clearly, Little is one of these jealous, possessive types. “Can I be of assistance?”

“No, thank you. Mr. Jopson and I have things quite under control.” Although they had, perhaps, been on the tip of losing some of that control. Henry will never know. Little doesn't give him chance to find out. He insists on “helping”, which means supervising Henry as closely as a protective father with a beautiful, unmarried daughter until the sleds are loaded with tins, salt pork, biscuits and grog. When they are about to set out, Henry catches Jopson's eye. 

“Eel pie and sponge,” he says.

“With raspberry jam,” Jopson replies easily. 

“What's that?” Little snaps. 

“Nothing.” Henry winks at Jopson. “I'll remember.” Jopson's answering smile is enough to warm him on the long trek back to _Erebus._

***

He does remember. Remembers when James' Carnivale—which Henry hoped might be an opportunity for flirtation, once Crozier made an appearance with the always-delectable Jopson by his side—rapidly becomes a scene of such horror Henry doesn't know how they could ever survive worse. Remembers when worse comes, and they abandon their ships, the last vestiges of home, to begin the endless walk across the ice and then the shale. Remembers when James dies and it hurts more than Henry would ever have guessed possible, not only that James is gone but that Henry was not the one by his side when he went. 

Remembers as he holds the fragile, bony Lieutenant Jopson in their tent. Little is there too, of course. Wherever Jopson is, so is he. Belatedly, Henry wonders whether it was something--someone--other than the ship Edward had been guarding so jealously, that long ago day in the hold. It scarcely matters now. He and Little exchange glances over Jopson's head, like worried parents with an ailing child, and try to keep him as warm and comfortable as they can whilst he descends, slowly, into irreversible illness.

Most of all, Henry remembers when he realizes what must be done. He is not a cruel man; he is a practical one. It is not malice which leads him to suggest moving on without the debilitated men, and to propose it again when Crozier is gone. It is rationality. Little may think otherwise, but Henry takes no joy in this decision. It hurts him as much as everything else in this hellish place, but somebody must take charge and act in the best interests of those who might still survive. Little is not doing so. Perhaps he _can_not do so. Henry doesn't blame him for his incapacity. That doesn't mean he can afford to indulge it. 

Henry himself sets the tins in front of Jopson's tent. Beef. If he awakens and fetches them, if he's lucid enough to notice, Henry hopes he recognizes the significance. Hopes he knows Henry is still grateful for the special care Jopson always showed him. Hopes he knows how much Henry regrets what he has to do.

“We will return for our men,” Henry tells assembled crew, as they prepare to set off without their brothers. Little is there, hovering on the periphery. Henry hopes he follows when they begin to move. He is not ill enough to stay here. “If that is not to be, we shall remember them as heroes, who perished courageously and unjustly in this frozen wasteland.” Henry is not as erudite as Crozier or as Biblical as Franklin, but the men mutter tired assent. As they walk away, Henry hopes Jopson dreams of eel pie and sponge with raspberry jam. Henry himself, he knows, will be dreaming of tea cakes and a cheeky smile and another exceptionally good man lost, and he will be doing so for a long time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> The French expression "'c'est la fin des haricots" (it's the end of the beans) basically means it's all over, we're fucked. The implication being if you've reached the point where you're even out of beans, you may as well pack it all in.


End file.
